Memorable
by Dahlia
Summary: Severus Snape, 16 years old and at war with all of existence, sat in the rain and scowled." [One-shot]


Severus Snape, 16 years old and at war with all of existence, sat in the rain and scowled.

It was a very good scowl, all things considered - it scared the living hell out of the house elves at home. Of course, just about anything scared a house elf. The fact that it sent first years' into hysterics was only slightly more noteworthy, and Severus was nothing if not persistent. He continued to work at it.

His arms were crossed tightly across his narrow chest, and his long, gangly legs stretched out in front of the rock he had been using as a chair for the past few hours. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there for - it had been raining when he left the castle, and the thick storm clouds made marking the passage of time by the sun impossible. But there was no rush. Severus knew instinctively that it would be quite a while before anyone would find him. Due mainly to the fact that there was probably no one looking for him. Or aware he was gone, for that matter.

The scowl deepened, and the arms tightened infinitesimally. It had been all their fault – Potter, The Golden Boy (or The Gilded Bastard, as Severus preferred to call him), had distracted him, snatching a book from his hands, after lunch in the corridor outside the Great Hall. That had been no problem – he had long ago learned that if he simply waited and did not react, those Gryffindor cretins would grow bored and leave him alone. But not without ensuring, of course, that Severus would have to use a number of charms to repair whatever item they had decided to 'play' with. This way was smarter, though. If a professor happened upon them, he knew he would have borne the brunt of the punishment. He was a Slytherin, and for many people, that was synonymous with guilty.

This time was slightly different, and he should have noticed. Potter insulted him as usual (ie: crudely and pathetically), and waved the book in front of him in what must have been an attempt at a taunting manner. But Black, Lupin and Pettigrew were off to one side, watching with the air of wild dogs moving in on an injured gazelle. Usually, they joined in. He bloody well shouldhave noticed. But Severus had simply stared at Potter, his expression one of calculated boredom; stony and unwavering. Until he felt a hand slide up his back and rest on his shoulder.

_Why_ had he turned around? Why hadn't he just shrugged it off, or started away? Anything would have been better…

Because when he had turned around, Lily Evans had been standing there, her expression, stance, and bearing exuding pure, un-adulterated sex. It had been as though it was coming off her in waves; a veritable flood of pheromones. Severus had been frozen, like a deer in the headlights, as she pushed his shoulder, gently forcing him to spin around. He hadn't moved when she pressed up against him, either. The warning klaxons in his head had been going off madly, but he had been too shocked (and, shamefully, too pathetically hopeful) to listen. __

And when she murmured something soft and throaty, he didn't hear, and didn't have a chance to ask her to repeat it, because she was kissing him. Her soft lips were pressed against his (god, she'd smelt good), and he remembered thinking that his eyes should be closed.

Before he had a chance do so, or even truly understand what was happening, she had pushed him away. Hard. He had landed in a clumsy heap in the floor, and when he looked up, everyone had been laughing. She had been laughing, too. And spitting repeatedly onto the floor. 

_'Can't forget the spitting,'_ he thought, full of impotent rage and humiliation. Something about a bet – that was what she had whispered. She had lost a bet, with her stupid, sonofabitch boyfriend and the genetic dredges he called friends.

_'Stupid, stupid, STUPID,'_ screamed his inner voice.

Stupid for not pushing her off him first. Stupid for ever turning around. Stupid for ever looking at the girl in the first place, period. Stupid for actually nursing a pathetic, masochistic little crush on the bitch. Stupid for ever even hoping that there was the slightest chance that one day, after Black had licked his boots clean and Hufflepuffs flew (without brooms), she might actually return the sentiment. Or at least not utterly despise him.

Stupid, because even with the knowledge that she had done it as a joke – a favour to Potter or Black, that she had probably gone and brushed her teeth about fifty times after words, that it had most likely been at the top of her Most Disgusting Things Ever Done list…

…it had been his first kiss.

He smiled bitterly in the rain. At least it was a memorable one.


End file.
